


Take Care of Me

by kayisdreaming



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blue Lions Route, Established Relationship, F/M, Post canon, mostly tlc, sylvain-flavored pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29604816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: Sylvain goes to Galatea with one thing on his mind.Fate, it appears, has a different idea.ORSylvain goes to Galatea, planning to propose to Ingrid. Ingrid, however, has fallen ill.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	Take Care of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Just something to help a sick friend feel better . . . unfortunately completed after they are likely already better.

There were few things in this world that affected Sylain like seeing Ingrid. It was like being able to have air in one’s lungs after holding their breath too long, or feeling the warmth of the sun after a difficult winter. No matter how long the distance hardened him, or how much Gautier tried to freeze his heart, her mere presence seemed to thaw it.

It was sappy, he knew. A younger version of himself certainly would have mocked him if he could see it now. A younger Sylvain would have ridiculed him for his attachment, condemned him for his willingness to crumble beneath the expectations of nobility.

But it wasn’t that. They didn’t embrace their inevitable roles—they were simply all the stronger against them when they were together.

Though admittedly he was falling into _some_ of those expectations. After all, he was actually going through the whole courtship thing. She insisted it was superfluous, unnecessary, but he knew that look in her eyes. He knew the fantasy of hers, to do _everything_ like the knights in her tales. And that meant being properly courted. Well, as much as he could, anyway. Most of the time it was willing.

After all, they hadn’t done anything inappropriate, yet. He’d asked her father for permission to court her (though she insisted it was unnecessary, and he would have still courted her even if her father said no). And most of the time they were together, there was someone else around. And the most extreme thing they’d ever done was hold hands (and, perhaps, the one time he kissed her hand just to see if she’d fluster. Which she did.). It was, by all definitions, purely innocent.

It was slow—agonizingly slow—compared to his famous exploits, but he was a patient man. And he’d wait a hundred years if it meant Ingrid would be his to love and cherish.

There was one problem, though. One _significant_ problem. The whole courting ritual had specific steps. There was a specific order to it all. In the worst case, it could be a long process spanning a few months.

Theirs, though, was reaching a year, now.

Logically, he could understand why. Traditional Faerghan courtship had about fifty required steps, and each one could take time. Most required at least an hour or two to be done properly. And he and Ingrid, well . . . they barely had that much time together normally.

In Fhirdiad, they were swamped with the work required by their respective duties. The most contact they had was in the few minutes while he walked her to his room. In Gautier, they were often together no more than two minutes before he was summoned off to help with bandits or Srengi extremists or residents of Gautier furious about the impending treaty. And he never really was able to visit Galatea—this was the first time in over a year that he was allowed to even _leave_ Gautier for pleasure.

Well, _that_ and the fact that Count Galatea seemed disinclined to Sylvain’s visits. He probably expected Sylvain to do something inappropriate with so few members of the staff to watch over them. Which . . . was admittedly getting more and more tempting with every passing month away from her. And with the last letter she last sent . . .

He exhaled slowly, trying to force himself to focus. Her letter had been entirely innocent, after all. She missed him, yearned to see him. Wanted to feel his hand in hers, to have him by her side once more. She loved him.

Every word of hers was precise, perfect—nothing like the chaotic buzz of thoughts that rattled in his head. It made him yearn to press his lips to her knuckles, her palm, her wrist . . . her lips. It made him want to hold her close and never let go. It made him want to abandon this whole ritual entirely just to finally let them be together without rules or obstacles in the way. After all, didn’t their years together as students and in war count for _something_?

He had deluded himself long enough that he had bought a ring. It sat heavy in his pocket now, an option that both tantalized and taunted him with every inch closer to Galatea.

He could ask, he knew. In the worst case, she would say no. She would simply make it clear that she wanted to do this right—that their relationship was _worth_ doing it right. In the best case, she’d say yes; and he’d be one step closer to holding her in his arms without restraint.

His eyes fell onto Galatea manor as he guided his horse through the stable doors. He’d have to actually ask her, first, and he _still_ hadn’t managed to work up the courage on his ride here.

“You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” He muttered as he dismounted Ebony, leading her into the stall. ‘Leading’ was perhaps a misnomer; she practically led herself into her favorite stall. After all, while Galatea’s stables were a bit smaller than Gautier’s, they were always better tended to and certainly more comfortable for the horses. Coming here was probably akin to a vacation for his mount.

With a soft hum, he removed her saddle and brindle, draping them over the railing between stalls. Only then did he notice that Berries, Ingrid’s favorite pegasus, was staring right at him.

There was little love lost between Sylvain and Berries. He admired the mare, certainly, for it was that very creature that kept Ingrid alive on the battlefield. They had been training together for years, and were as much a part of each other as could be. He respected her, understood that it was as much the mare’s loyalty as it was Ingrid’s skill that even kept Ingrid alive enough for him to finally get to love her.

Berries, on the other hand, loathed him. He couldn’t entirely blame her—too often he had used the stable at the monastery for minor trysts; she was very likely insulted that he would use her home for such lascivious activities. She’d pushed him, bit him, very nearly trampled him once.

The pegasus took another step across her stall, eyes entirely fixated on Sylvain. He could only watch—if the mare truly wished to be rid of him, then he doubted a few boards between them would stop her.

Instead, she let her head hang over the barrier between them, nudging him with her nose. When he didn’t do what she wanted—even though he was even _more_ lost on what that was—her nudges became more insistent.

With a shaky hand, he reached over, letting his fingers massage just between her ears. When she didn’t bite him, he was only spurred on further, petting her mane and face and flank with as much affection as he would give to his own horse.

And Berries melted right into it. Whenever he got a particularly good spot, she nudged at him more, nuzzling him like he was whatever a horse’s version of an angel was.

“You alright?” He asked, scratching just behind her ear.

His eyes fell across the features of the stable. Nothing looked _wrong_ , per se. The hay spread across the floor was relatively fresh, and the stable itself was fairly clean. The water was full, as was her food. The stable was well taken care of.

But Berries, very much like her owner, hardly ever refused meals. That Ingrid hadn’t noticed and wasn’t here babying her pegasus was . . . concerning.

“You should go home, Gautier.” The voice, both masculine and very, very familiar, nearly made Sylvain jump.

But reacting would be just as bad as giving in. And Sylvain was loathe to let _anyone_ try to deter his confidence any more than he was capable of doing on his own.

With a sigh, he stepped out of the stall, leaning against the wood as he closed the latch. It didn’t surprise him to see a blond man lingering at the stable’s entrance, glaring at Sylvain like it was a personal affront that he dare use Galatea’s stables. 

To be fair, his hatred wasn’t unique. All of Ingrid’s brothers loathed Sylvain. But Rowan Galatea, well, he was perhaps the maestro of all of this animosity.

To an extent, it was understandable. Ingrid was Rowan’s little sister. She was his _only_ sister. And Rowan, an appropriately-behaved sibling, doted on her endlessly. He’d been one of the biggest fans of Glenn, after all, and Sylvain—who was exceptionally notorious even though he was only two years younger than Rowan—was nothing in comparison. He’d wanted Ingrid to marry the perfect knight she’d always dreamed of. And Sylvain simply didn’t compare.

“I just got here.” Sylvain said instead, smiling amiably. “It would be rude to not say ‘hi’.”

Rowan merely sneered. “My sister doesn’t want to see you. Go home.”

Sylvain’s smile fell slightly, a chill running up his spine. Her brothers loathed him, but they weren’t by nature bad people. They wouldn’t lie if they thought it would hurt their sister. That was, unless, they determined that Sylvain was more likely to make her miserable than their lies would.

Then again, it hadn’t been that long since she’d sent the letter that still sat in his breast pocket. It hadn’t been more than a month, really. There was no way her opinion could have changed that quickly.

But it wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with her doubts. He knew she was unsure of his conviction, especially since he _wasn’t_ treating her like his former conquests. He’d reiterated again and again that he wanted to do it right, because _she_ was different—he _loved_ her—but he knew that didn’t dispel it completely. And, if that wasn’t it, then perhaps she doubted _his_ intentions. Perhaps she thought their time together was rare by design. Perhaps she thought he was merely using this courtship to hide his other relationships under his father’s nose.

And if her siblings were encouraging her doubts . . .

Sylvain stepped away from the stall, brushing off his coat. “I still want to say ‘hello’ to her.”

“You deaf, Gautier? She doesn’t want to see you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you know why?”

Rowan’s sneer curled into more of a scowl, cheeks flushing with his frustration. He exhaled sharply before looking away. “She’s ill. And so she—”

Sylvain didn’t care to hear the rest. His feet acted of their own accord, striding across the stable with long steps, easily avoiding Rowan as the man tried to block his path. Before the man could so much as yell and curse his name, Sylvain was already halfway to the estate. By the time the staff noticed his approach, he was already inside. At least they were more sensible and didn’t give chase as he waved them away.

He only let himself pause when he stood outside her bedroom door. It was only then that his brain began to work again—that he let it override a natural inclination to make sure she was well. It was then that the gravity around him seemed heavier, made his feet feel like his head and kept his hands firmly at his sides.

It was, after all, possible that Rowan was lying. Not about the fact Ingrid didn’t want to see him, but about the illness. The man didn’t hide the fact he thought Sylvain was a selfish man. To him, of _course_ Sylvain wouldn’t go near a sick person—not when it would put his health at risk. As such, it would be such an easy excuse to keep Sylvain away, especially if he hadn’t prodded his sister for potential reasons.

Sylvain sighed. If he stepped inside, he would know the truth. If Rowan wasn’t lying, then he could help her. If he was, then he’d know. He’d be yelled at, inevitably. Perhaps barred from Galatea forever. Nothing would be as painful as knowing that she couldn’t be straightforward with him.

But hesitating wouldn’t make the truth any less real.

He rapped his knuckles against the door. The sound was light, but enough that she _had_ to hear. So all he had to do was wait—for either her approval or her dismissal. So he waited.

And waited.

But there was nothing. No voices, no movement, nothing. If she was ill, silence was not a good sign.

Swallowing hard, Sylvain let himself in.

What he saw was disconcerting. The curtains were left wide open, letting the sun shine its bright rays freely into the room. The day had been a pleasant one—perfect for a proposal, really—meaning that everything in her room nearly glowed as it reflected the light. It very nearly invited a headache, forcing him to shift his focus.

Just beyond the curtains, the window was left open—left wide enough that he could even feel the breeze from the doorway. It had likely been a noble effort to keep the room from being stifling, but he couldn’t imagine it doing anything other than gleefully inviting a chill.

The breeze made the most worrisome element teeter with every passing burst. Just by Ingrid’s bed, her nightstand was piled high with various goods—medicine, food, water, and towels. Whoever had brought them had been an utter fool; the items were balanced delicately, to the point where the grabbing of one would make the entire set crash onto the floor. It wasn’t a helpful resource, it was a hazard.

“Leave me alone.” A muffled voice said from beneath the blankets.

Swallowing, Sylvain stepped closer. He paused as his foot nudged perhaps the more worrisome thing. The pile on the bed was little more than one quilt, barely large enough to cover her whole body. The rest of the blankets—now at his feet—appeared to be kicked to the floor ages ago, certainly too far now from the bed to reach. The entire form trembled slightly with every shift in the air.

He rubbed his face. He supposed this shouldn’t have surprised him. It was very like Ingrid to simply ask for the materials she needed to survive this, to bid everyone else to leave her alone. Only she would see caretaking as a burden upon others. Only she would be too stubborn to accept help.

And, clearly, no one else in Galatea had the sense to argue against her. Fine. Then _he_ had to be the smart one here.

Without a word, he strode across the room, sliding the window shut and fastening the lock so it wouldn’t open itself. It was easy enough to pull the curtains closed, grateful that they were thick enough to block out the light. He let himself adjust to the darkness before he returned to the bedside, laying one of the discarded blankets over her quilt. When it was clear that her form stopped shaking, he folded the rest at the foot of her bed.

She grumbled, but she said nothing.

He took that as permission to continue, turning his attention to the disaster at her bedside. With excess care to remain quiet, he spread out the contents on the floor. It was easy to divide what might be helpful—water, towels, and a couple medicines—and to pile things utterly useless—such as soup gone cold and sedatives that would certainly make her sleep, but wouldn’t let her rest.

He was half done when she spoke again. “I said go away.”

Sylvain didn’t respond, instead frowning at a small stack of papers that she clearly thought she could attend to while feverish and exhausted. 

The blanket was snapped downward, and he finally got to see her face.

Ingrid’s lips curled as if she wanted to yell, but she remained frozen in place. Instead, her expression fell, sitting somewhere between disbelieving and uncertain, like she wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t a hallucination.

While her lackluster reaction was a severe point of concern, it _did_ give Sylvain enough time to take in her opportunity. Too easily his eyes fell upon the deep flush across her forehead and cheeks—possibly the outcome of her blanket cocoon, but more likely the result of a fever. Her nose was particularly unmarred, though, meaning that she wasn’t suffering from any sort of congestion—so it was less likely a cold than it was simply a fever of some sort. That, of course, made him more concerned about how chapped her lips were and how dull her eyes seemed—dehydration would certainly make her symptoms worse, and he wasn’t sure she had the sense to know that was the cause. Equally notable were the dark circles under her eyes, making it clear that she hadn’t been able to rest even when alone.

“Why are you here?” She asked, her voice rough.

He smiled sweetly. “I came to see you.”

She was clearly not as pleased to see him as he was to see her. “Rowan—”

“The only Galatea who could ever handle me is you.”

Ingrid groaned, her fingers curling and uncurling in her blanket. “Just go home, Sylvain.”

He frowned, hoping it didn’t show the hurt resonating in his chest. “Why?”

Judging by her expression, it did. Ingrid looked away, letting out a shaky exhale while she ran her fingers through her hair—gripping far harder than she deserved. “I just—I’m not . . .” her lip quivered slightly, “I’m . . .”

He sighed, reaching over and resting the back of his hand on her forehead. She was hot, but at least not dangerously so. He had to take some relief in the fact that it hadn’t gotten too bad . . . even though it was worrying that no one would have noticed even if it had.

Ingrid sighed softly, her head pressing insistently against his hand, not unlike her pegasus. He frowned, confused as she shifted slightly around the contact. Each movement made her skin feel blazing, like there was little chance of cooling her down.

_Oh_. Duh.

With a smile, he cupped her cheeks in his hands, absolutely delighted at the contented noise she made. He had worn gloves while riding to fight the cold, but with the horses, it had been better to have a personal touch. It was good to know that his habit had left his fingers frigid—just enough to cool the heat in her face.

When his hands no longer provided any relief, he pulled away. He turned his attention to the supplies that were still of worth. With soft hums, he dropped a towel into one of the bowls of water, careful to wring it out and get it properly cold before he let it drape over her forehead.

“That good?” He asked, nudging the towel slightly so he could see her eyes.

She was watching him, her gaze slightly more focused but still not entirely there. “I doubt this is what you imagined when you came to visit.”

No, it was far from it. Of every situation he’d mulled over in his head, an obstinate Ingrid insistent against properly combatting her illness was certainly not among them. But he had wanted her to be able to rely on him. He had wanted to take care of her—wasn’t that what marriage was, when it was done right?

Sylvain smiled, something that kept coming to him all too easily with her around. “All I want is to take care of you. The rest are just details.”

Sylvain grunted as he set the crate down by Ingrid’s bed, overly careful not to make too much noise. No, he’d made plenty on his way back to her room, cursing the staff aplenty for being forthcoming with the supplies he’d needed, but not useful at all when it came to actually delivering the goods. Instead, he’d been piled high with boiling liquids, delicate bottles, and a handful of other things and sent to ascend the uneven stairs on his own.

Sure, he should have commended them for actually listening to their lady’s orders, but _still_. Sure, he was still a knight, still constantly in battle and constantly having to be at the best of shape. But heavy lifting was hardly his forte—it hadn’t been in his youth and he certainly wasn’t now.

As such, he was sure he was rather pathetic as he sat there half-hunched over the crate, gasping to catch his breath. His attempts at being quiet in his struggles were only half-effective, and made breathing so much harder.

But he’d gotten what he needed here, meaning he hadn’t had to go far. And he made it, and nothing had shattered. He should at least be glad for that.

With a sigh, he began to separate the new goods among the items already determined to be useful. With this, he didn’t need to go far to take care of her.

He paused as fingers carded into his hair, the touch gentle and so, so wonderful. He closed his eyes, leaning into the contact, enjoying the sensation of her nails brushing against his scalp.

“I thought I dreamt you were here.” Ingrid whispered, voice soft as if anything louder might hurt her.

He hummed, shifting so he could more easily sit by her bed. As easily as a habit, he took the cloth from her forehead, dropping it to the bowl of water still lingering at her bedside.

“I don’t mind being your dream man.” He teased, brushing aside her bangs to rest his knuckles against her forehead. The fever hadn’t gone down completely, but at least it _had_ gone down.

She hummed, her hands sliding out from beneath the blankets to caress his cheeks. He leaned into it; it took all the willpower he had not to kiss her wrists, just to dote on her with _something_. Something to acknowledge the touch, to show her how much he craved it, how much he missed it.

But two sick nobles were far worse than one.

Though it ached, he pulled away, shifting his attention back to the cloth as he soaked and wrang it out several times. Gently, he returned it back to its place on her forehead.

“Do you dream of me often?” He asked, brushing some of her hair from her face.

She looked up at him, face as serious as it had been when they were teens and she was adamant that he needed to be less careless. “I miss you.” She said, refusing to whisper. It made her voice crack painfully. “Of course I do.”

He swallowed hard, hoping it would ease the way his heart thrummed in his chest. It didn’t, but it at least kept him from flustering like a fool. Ingrid was direct most of the time—almost painfully so—but hardly ever when it came to romantic things in person. She could manage fine in text, he had proof of that, but with _words?_ Not so much.

Probably for the best, considering it made him want to swoon. Made him want to smother her in kisses and hold her close and never let go.

He had to wonder if maybe it was the fever at fault.

He cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?”

She sighed, a small whine lingering just at the edge of her breath. “My head hurts. Everything hurts.”

“I have a tea steeping.” He glanced down at the pot still in the crate that miraculously still had most of the boiling water in its proper place. “More herbal water, really. It’s good at helping, though. Think you could keep it down?”

Ingrid frowned, a small crease forming just between her eyebrows. She glanced down at the floor, then at her blankets, then at him. Slowly, she nodded.

He smiled. Gently, he guided her up to sit, careful that he didn’t jostle her too hard. It took time—and quite a few pillows—to get her mostly upright, back into some semblance of comfortable. All things considered, though, they had all the time in the world.

That was, at least, until he noticed her shudder. Like an overly doting mother, he was quick to wrap one of her thickest blankets around her, getting creative with the way he tucked it here and there until only an arm was at risk of getting cold. With the two blankets in her lap and the one serving as a temporary coat, though, he very much doubted it happening.

“Still good for tea?” He asked, cupping her cheek and letting his thumb brush idly over her cheekbone.

She nodded, the movement small and almost imperceptible compared to the way she nuzzled against his hand.

With perhaps a little too much difficulty, he pulled himself away to make her tea. The contents were fortunately still steaming—perfect for chasing away any lingering cold—and didn’t have that telltale bitter smell that was a sure sign of over-steeping.

“Just drink it slowly.” He said, passing her the cup with as much gentleness as he could muster. He sat just at the edge of the bed so he could catch it if it began to teeter. “Don’t want you getting sick on it.”

Ingrid nodded, slow as she brought the cup to her lips. Each sip was controlled and measured, several breaths taken between each taste. She didn’t seem to mind the taste at least—or perhaps she couldn’t taste it—which would help her keep it down.

“That should be good for now.” He muttered, letting his hand rest on her knee. He let his thumb draw small circles, hoping she could feel it through her blankets. “Won’t take much to start working.”

He watched as she let the cup rest in her lap, fingers still curled around the handle to keep it from spilling. It was clear she wasn’t shaking any more, and her shoulders had begun to ease from their overly-stiff state. If the medicine began acting, he was sure she’d actually be at peace enough to sleep. That was, _if_ he handled all the symptoms.

He opened his mouth to ask, but was cut off before he could even manage a word.

“I’m sorry.” Ingrid said, staring down at her cup. Her voice was still rough, but at least it didn’t sound like it was rolling over gravel anymore. “That you had to come with me like . . . this. I’m sorry.”

He blinked, too startled to comprehend, let alone speak.

“I imagine you probably wanted us to ride together, or go to town, or have dinner, or . . . I suppose whatever else you had in mind. And instead,” her expression crumpled, eyes shimmering like she was on the verge of tears, “you’re here.”

Sylvain rubbed his face. True, he imagined a great many things before coming here. But he didn’t regret their absence. “Does it make you happy?” He asked instead. “That I’m here?”

Ingrid merely stared at him.

He resisted the urge to squirm. It seemed pretty simple; a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would suffice plenty. “It’s not a rhetorical question, you know.”

“Oh.” She winced, a small blush crawling over her cheeks. “Of course it does. Make me happy, that is.”

He hoped his relief didn’t show on his face. He could hardly judge her for being insecure when he was just as bad. But it didn’t count if it wasn’t obvious. “Then that’s all that matters.”

“Sylvain—”

“All I want is to make you feel good.” He said, reaching over to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Besides, you never let me dote on you.”

Her flush deepened, lips curling like she had an argument in mind but couldn’t make it coherent on her lips.

“I like it.” He said, tilting his head. Of course, heat ran to his face almost immediately. “N-not that you’re sick, of course. I take no joy in your suffering. I just . . . like doting on you. It’s not like I’m happy at all that—”

Ingrid laughed, the sound soft and contained but a laugh all the same. When she glanced up at him, her eyes practically shimmered with affection. “I’m happy you’re here.”

Sylvain had to be grateful that she was used to him being an utter idiot. He tried to maintain some composure by nudging the teacup. “Take another drink.”

Ingrid sighed and grimaced, but obeyed all the same. After another sip, she glanced at him over her cup. “Where did you get this, anyway?” She mused. “I’ve never had it before.”

“I made it.”

“You . . . did?”

“Mmhm.” He nodded, glancing down at the still half-full pot. “Had a miserable cold, once. Could barely stay on my feet—I had to crawl to get something to eat. After _that,_ I did some research. Srengi techniques wound up working, weirdly enough. Cuts sick time in half. Haven’t used anything else since.”

He glanced over at Ingrid, grinning at his clearly brilliant review. Her pinched expression, though, made him feel like his heart had sunk into his stomach.

“Where were you the first time?” She asked, voice soft. “On the road?”

He swallowed. As much as he wanted to lie, he was pretty sure she was too lucid for him to manage one of this magnitude successfully without infuriating her. “At home.”

“Where were the others?”

This, this he could maneuver around a bit. “Father was along the border. I told him I was going to Fhirdiad, so he sent most of the staff away.”

“But you were home.”

He shrugged. “Wanted to be left alone. Didn’t expect the staff to be gone. Bad miscommunication, really.”

She frowned. “I wish I was there for you.”

Sylvain swallowed, watching her with perhaps far more open of an expression than he would have preferred. He could already imagine it. Ingrid was harsh in many ways—outright brutal, even—but he knew her at her most gentle, too. He knew her gentle caresses after soured delegations, knew her soft words when he was startled awake from simple naps by nightmares, knew the way she easily defended him whenever his past was thrown in their faces.

“Next time,” she placed her hand on his, “I want to be there for you.”

The ring in his pocket never felt so heavy. He wanted it, more than words could say. He wanted more chances to dote on her, to smother her with affection. And he wanted her by his side, just as eager to please him.

But now was not the time.

His gaze shifted to her cup, now entirely empty. “How do you feel about eating?” He asked, glancing up at her with a wry smile.

The face she made rivalled Felix’s most intense scowl.

“Alright then, more for me.” With a shrug that was so casual he was sure he’d be scolded endlessly if she had the energy for it, he reached into the rest of his goods. A heavy pot sat at the very bottom of the crate still, steam seeping out from beneath the lid. The steam escaped in one big puff as he pulled it open, trying to ignore the way the smell rode it all too easily. He couldn’t, however, ignore the way his stomach grumbled.

He was careful as he ladled some of the pot’s contents, watching as the meat and onions fell rather gracelessly into his bowl. It was a plain stew by all standards—perfect for one whose stomach was unreliable at best—but still it reminded him of how long he hadn’t eaten. And, perhaps, was too easily of a callback to meals at the Academy, of idle conversations shared over a similarly-crafted Daphnel stew.

He perched himself more comfortably on the bed, careful as he blew on the contents to ensure he didn’t burn his tongue. Each bite was slow and methodical, just enough to savor each taste before he went for another.

Ingrid wasn’t congested, he knew. And so he knew she could smell it, knew that the flavor would be just as tantalizing if the entire pot was placed in front of her. It was only a question of if her stubbornness would win, or her love for stew.

“Do you want a bite?” He asked, glancing over like he was the most oblivious man in the world.

Ingrid scowled, looking away. “I don’t want to get you sick.”

“Hm.” His smile shifted into something mischievous. Slowly, he took another spoonful, blowing on it so it was just short of burning. Instead of taking it for himself, though, he offered it to her, letting the spoon hover just inches away from her lips. “For me?”

She glared, but even a feverish Ingrid wasn’t immune to his most innocent and charming smile. Eventually, she relented, taking the offered bite.

When he offered another, she was even less resistant.

Eventually, he had managed to feed her the entirety of the bowl. Not just that, but a refill, too. It didn’t compare to her usual appetite, still, but he would take it over nothing. And he wouldn’t trade her satisfied smile for anything, either.

However, that shifted when realization dawned upon her as she set her eyes on the empty bowl. Her expression fell quickly—the bliss of a good meal rapidly vanishing.

“I . . . ate your meal.” She muttered, fingers clenching tightly into her blankets. “I’m sorry.”

If it wasn’t for her cold, he was certain he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from smothering her with kisses for being irresistibly adorable.

“No need to apologize.” He said, setting the bowl aside. Instead, he lifted the pot into his lap, pulling out another of the spoons he had packed. “I was prepared for just this moment. Unless . . . you’re still hungry?”

Her distress quickly dissolved into frustration, then to a barely-concealed amusement. “No” she muttered, a small laugh in her voice, “it’s all yours.”

He was glad to find that, once the meal had settled and Ingrid had settled back into her bed, the fever had again diminished. She looked more lucid with every passing moment, and finally her whole body seemed more relaxed and at ease. At least he could be certain that neither pain nor hunger were eating at her any longer.

“I think,” he whispered, pulling her blankets up a bit, “all you need now is to rest.”

He twitched at the sensation of her fingers curling into his sleeve. “I’m not tired.”

“And I’m not a Gautier.”

Her lower lip stuck out like she was a child again, having fallen after poorly imitating one of Glenn’s moves. “I’m _not_.”

He sighed. It had been far easier to soothe Ingrid when she was young than to try and attempt to combat her stubbornness now. His gaze slid across the room, falling on the only weapon types that could ever aid his cause. “I could read to you.”

“Sylvain—”

“We didn’t finish that book last time.” He leaned as much as her grip allowed, digging into her nightstand drawer. It was easy to find his target: a leather-bound book with its cover still blotchy from the rain that had surprised them in the gardens, pages still bookmarked with the leaves of the tree that had provided them both shade and shelter. “You didn’t read it without me, did you?”

She gaped at him, eyes flicking to the book in his hands. “I . . .”

Idly, Sylvain flicked through the pages. It was a rather simple chivalric tale, really, one he had gifted her on his last visit. It had been an impulse purchase for himself at first—something to make the snowed-in days more tolerable. When he found that the knight reminded him far too much of his dear lady love, though, he _knew_ he couldn’t have continued it without her. The knight was far too much like her, after all, made him yearn anew with a far grander intensity. It would be torment to endure it without her by his side.

She, of course, had been fascinated by it. It was certainly a fantasy, one unburdened by the muddled webs of politics and grey ethics. It was simple, straightforward, romantic. Entertaining without being overwhelming.

He paused where they had left off, pleased to see the page still folded at the top corner. He glanced back at her, his smile only showing a mere fraction of his adoration. “How about a chapter?”

She swallowed, nodding slightly. “Just . . . one.”

Ingrid barely lasted a page, let alone a chapter. By the time Sylvain had turned the page, soft snores were passing her lips. She didn’t look rested or well by any means, but at least she looked peaceful. At least she looked like she stood a chance.

As he shifted to return the book back to its place, he realized her fingers were still curled into his sleeve. They hadn’t moved from the moment she grabbed him, and they seemed even less inclined in her deep sleep. If he wanted to escape, then—wanted to leave to enjoy a soft bed for the night—it would be impossible to do so without waking her.

And Sylvain certainly wasn’t going to do that for something so petty. With a fond sigh, he shifted to sit on the ground, letting his arms serve as his pillow on the mattress.

He woke slowly, guided by the sensation of fingers in his hair, nails gently brushing against his scalp. The touches were light, graceful—as if they couldn’t decide whether to wake him or lull him back to sleep. Sylvain, for his own part, didn’t seem to mind sitting right in that limbo.

But he had a duty. One that he wouldn’t neglect for anything.

With a small yawn, he righted himself, not entirely unsurprised to see Ingrid already sitting up. The circles beneath her eyes weren’t gone, but they had certainly diminished greatly. And, while her cheeks were still slightly flushed, it appeared to be more from embarrassment than fever.

“How are you feeling?” He asked around another yawn.

Ingrid cleared her throat, a sheepish smile on her lips. “Hungry.”

Sylvain stood immediately, scooping up the previous night’s dishes into his arms. “I’ll see what I can sneak from the kitchen.” He said, smiling as he pressed a kiss to her hair. “Stay here.”

She hummed an affirmation, smile still on her lips. “Do you think,” she asked, voice soft as he pulled away, “you could keep reading to me when you come back?”

The ring still sat heavy in his pocket, but it was more grounding than anything now. “For you? Anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter: [@kayisdreaming ](https://twitter.com/kayisdreaming)!  
> 


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